


The Unwritten Rules

by Talullah



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Gondolin, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-19
Updated: 2015-08-19
Packaged: 2018-04-15 13:35:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,411
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4608753
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Talullah/pseuds/Talullah
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Salgant takes an interest in his old time friend's son.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Unwritten Rules

**Author's Note:**

  * For [gloriousmonsters](https://archiveofourown.org/users/gloriousmonsters/gifts).



> Written for the 2015 Ardour in August exchange, for Maure, who requested Salgant/Maeglin, vaguely creepy, rules-and-appearance-obsessed Gondolin; nobody being excessively villainized; Salgant being kind of protective towards Maeglin; no death.
> 
> Many thanks to Alex Cat for the beta.
> 
> [Disclaimer/Blanket Statement](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Talullah/profile)

**Gondolin, 400 FA**

“The Lord Maeglin perhaps could visit me and find some clothes more to the style of Gondolin. The Dwarves of Nogrod and Belegost perhaps are not the best tailors.” The words rang and rang in Maeglin’s ears as he walked through the halls, swiftly but with no real destination. Humiliation, incomprehension, anger flooded him. He could not fully identify the mix of feelings, but he knew he felt like kicking in the buffoon’s face. Not two weeks before his father had murdered his mother while trying to kill him, and his uncle had killed his father and he had to endure that kind of comment from his uncle’s servants. Egalmoth, the parrot, seemed to forget who Maeglin was. Son of a princess of the Noldor, nephew to the king, a descendant of the mighty Finwë. Who knew, one day Turgon might even sail, or decide to go out in battle?

Seething, Maeglin kept to his murderous thoughts while roaming the long corridors of his uncle’s palace. After a while, he realized he was being followed. He turned sharply to the left and waited. Cautious steps grew closer until a large figure made the same turn and gave a startled jump when he saw Maeglin.

“My lord, your pardon,” the elf said, quickly bowing.

“Why are you following me?” Maeglin asked coldly.

“I am not – I mean, I am following you, but it is not for a bad reason.”

Maeglin raised an eyebrow.

“Salgant, at your service, my lord,” the elf said, bowing.

“I know who you are,” Maeglin tersely replied. “My uncle presented me to all the lords of the houses not a few days ago.”

“You have an extraordinary memory, my lord,” Salgant said with surprise. “I would imagine one suffering your grief would have no mind for… well, for courtly affairs.”

“I find it useful to know my standing,” Maeglin said.

“Quite so.” Salgant bowed.

“So. Why were you following me?” Maeglin pursued.

Salgant looked down at his shuffling feet.

“You are not very eloquent for a minstrel,” Maeglin said, so coldly it could hardly be confused with a taunt. Still, Salgant quietly snorted.

“Well, it was because of the gathering just before… I wanted to warn you, Egalmoth may seem friendly and wanting to help you, but be careful… he is an empty, vain buffoon. There are enough sycophants in this town to make him think that he actually dresses well and that he can speak thus to the nephew of the king.”

“Buffoon.” Maeglin said, pondering. “The word occurred to me.” He was not yet sure he liked Salgant. He decided to test him. “He does have a point,” he said, gesturing to his own clothes.

“More or less,” Salgant replied.

“How do you mean? You really lack in eloquence.”

“May I speak plainly?”

Maeglin assented with a solemn nod.

“I like the sombre colours on you. They go very well with your complexion. And the cut of your clothes flatters your figure.”

“But?”

“But perhaps the leather is a little worn. The engravings on your vambraces are not worn since the Lady Aredhel left the city.”

A shadow crossed Maeglin’s face.

“I am sorry, my lord. I was truly sorry for the loss of her life. The Lady Aredhel and I were good friends, in times, especially in Vinyamar.” Salgant waited for a reaction from Maeglin, but none emerged. He continued. “Also, we can upgrade the fabrics. Your shirt could be silk, your leggings could be-”

“Stop! I comprehend what you say.” Maeglin pinched his nose. “I came with my mother to this city to accomplish things. Do I truly have to waste my time in appearances?”

Salgant bit his lip. “It goes a little beyond clothes… There are mannerisms that the fashionable adopt, places to attend, a certain literary and musical taste… Sometimes I wonder if we have too much freed time…”

“What if I refuse to play the game?” Maeglin inquired.

“The Lady Aredhel did not talk with you about these things?”

“She talked about the beauty of the buildings and the deeds of my kin.”

Salgant sighed. “Well, you are nephew of the king. You can choose not to play the game… or you can outplay them.”

Maeglin looked around. The hall was empty. “Come, follow me to my rooms.”

* * *

Salgant was excited. It had been a long time since something remotely fresh was seen in Gondolin. He could not remember the last original thought, person, art, conversation that he had seen. He deeply understood why Aredhel had left, but it was the price to pay for safety. Sometimes he did miss Vinyamar, and before that, Hithlum, where he had been born. But after living in the oppressive perfection of Gondolin for so long, he did not yearn to see Aman anymore. Except, of course, for the security it offered, if it could ever be reached without peril.

But here was something new, one of Elbereth’s stars fallen from the sky. Aredhel’s boy was a wonder. Salgant could barely disguise his interest in his old friend’s son. Yes, everything was very proper, and in public she was ‘the Lady Aredhel’, but in times they had been friends. Salgant smiled, as he followed Maeglin down the halls, remembering how she would rely on him to escape the palace and sneak into the taverns of Nevrast, to sing bawdy songs and drink ale, among other things. He kept her secrets and Aredhel kept his, but they never let themselves become too serious – life offered song and laughter and friendship.

The boy, as Salgant thought of him as Maeglin had barely passed majority, took two wrong turns. Salgant was tempted to tell him so, but it was a joy to watch that confident gait and the lovely, thick black hair bouncing. A true son of his mother. Salgant could not see a thing from that Eöl in him, nor could he imagine what Aredhel might have seen in him. The whole thing was too exciting. He needed ink and paper and his lyre, urgently, because finally, after a long, dry spell, he wanted to write music, a ballad of how the wicked dark elf had ensnared the lovely white lady of the Noldor with his unholy magic.

There was also the beginning of an idea for another song, one about the glorious dark prince born of that union, who would overtake all foes and become the High King, not of the Noldor but of all races… but it was treason to forget there was already a living, breathing High King elsewhere and his brother, Salgant’s sire, in line for succession. Still, it was hard to resist the thought. Maeglin was still too young, but he had a hardened face, beautiful and stark, no smiles, only a straight line of a mouth, a steel glint in his eyes, and his mother’s sharp cheekbones possibly making him the most handsome male face in Gondolin. He barely exceeded his mother’s height, but the work at the forges with his father had shaped a masculine figure with hard, broad shoulders, strong legs, wide hands.

“Tell me, Lord Salgant,” Maeglin said, as he opened the door to his rooms, “all about these games. I cannot see my mother wasting time with subterfuges and the like. I do not understand.”

Salgant nodded and entered the room, then sat on the chair Maeglin offered. There was the tiniest break in Maglin’s voice as he mentioned his mother and that endeared the boy to him all the more. “Where to begin… Subterfuges is a nice word for it. You are truly your mother’s son.”

Save for a sharp glance, Maeglin betrayed nothing of his thoughts and Salgant thought that there might be, after all, something not Aredhel in the boy. Salgant started. “Well, there’s being and there is appearing. You can be whatever you wish, as long as it does not infringe the written and unwritten rules. That is to say, as long as you appear to be what people expect you to be. Break those rules, and you will find yourself in a difficult position, the object of gossip, malice, shunning, depending on the type of infraction and its gravity.”

“Unwritten rules?” Maeglin frowned slightly.

“Yes.” Salgant wandered how much the boy knew of the birds and the bees. He decided to approach that later. “It sounds awfully complicated and it is.” He smiled. “I will help you.”

* * *

He did. Salgant spent the next decade helping Maeglin establish his own house, much to the detriment of his own affairs. His own house ran smoothly, but at times it suffered from lack of attention. He had to be weary of the rumour mill too. Maeglin might be the king’s nephew but no one was above tarnishing, and he was painfully aware that now and then people still talked about his humble origins and that there were the faintest insinuations about his proclivities. He wanted none of that for Maeglin.

But there he was, the Lord of the House of the Mole, gloriously clad in black. Maeglin was a natural. He set boundaries with his penetrating glance in situations others might scramble for words. He cultivated an image of aloofness that fascinated Gondolin and often Salgant placed himself as a shield, keeping at a safe distance those who, too obviously, salivated at the thought of being close with the prince.

From the very beginning, Salgant had been drawn by a certain frailty that seemed to lurk underneath that stayed expression. He had not been disappointed. Once Maeglin started trusting him, there had been small confessions here and there about the life in Nan Elmoth, his father’s temperament, the work with the dwarves. Other times, Maeglin might allude to his ambitions, but mostly, he kept a wall, even with Salgant. The little slivers of intimacy were all the lure Salgant needed to be hopelessly drawn in.

Salgant bitterly chuckled at his train of thought, watching from the window how Maeglin followed Idril to the terrace and offered her a pouch. He had been shown what was inside. A necklace of unsurpassed beauty. Maeglin had spent countless hours working on it. Idril peered inside and returned the pouch with a few words Salgant could not hear from his position. She left and Maeglin sat, despondent. Aredhel would have found it hilarious. Her son in love with the woman she had raised as a daughter… and her friend in love with a man who could be his son. No hope for either of the three. Idril would succumb sooner or later to Maeglin’s advances. She had the duty to marry someone and plenty had tried. He doubted they would be happy, though. Maeglin would never get from her what he was searching.

Hearing voices heading down to the terrace, Salgant called out. “Ah, Lord Ecthelion – just the man I needed to see.” Salgant pretended not to see the glance Ecthelion exchanged with Glorfindel. He hated the both of them, pedantic bastards with empty heads, but he would cushion Maeglin against their intrusion. “I am penning a new song, which could use a skilled flute…” 

“Oh, really?” Ecthelion looked at him with new interest. 

“Really.” Salgant took Ecthelion’s arm and started walking, telling him about the piece he was making up in the spot and fiercely dismissing his second thoughts on how oddly his creativity seemed to work.

* * *

“Poor fool Salgant,” Maeglin thought. He had heard the voices and had understood what his puppy had done for him. He did like Salgant, as much as he could like anyone. He could come off as one of the little sycophants he so much liked to criticize, but he had proven himself to be so much more. Salgant was his ally and he could trust him in everything. It was a pity Salgant could not see through him, or maybe it was a blessing. Because, if right at this moment Salgant’s heart was bleeding for him, thinking him a poor victim of unrequited love, it might not bleed at all if his friend, prone to romantic tendencies, realized that his infatuation with Idril had long ceased to be. He now merely wished for a strong alliance, the strongest of them all, to consolidate his position. He was fourth generation Finwë, but by maternal line. Even if he ever had the line of succession open to him, there would still be that feeble Orodreth and his son to be reckoned with. But with Idril and a son, his position would improve. But that was thinking quite far. Even here, in Gondolin, who would say Turgon would not leave as heir a son-in-law Idril might give him?

Perhaps that blond Glorfindel, who laughed too much. He certainly hung around much and made no secret of his dislike for Maeglin. Perhaps Rog. The man was built like a tower and women looked at him unabashedly – even Idril.

Maeglin placed his gift on his pocket and took the path at the back of Turgon’s halls down to his own House. Salgant had been the one suggesting that it would be good for his standing to have a house of his own, to show himself off as more than a parasitic relative. He would have done so, eventually, but at the time he had been so focused on finding minerals and gathering people that he would have probably postponed it for quite a long time. 

Pushing open the large charcoal door to his home, Maeglin almost smiled. It was heavy, glossy, imposing and sober. Salgant’s design, as just about everything else in the house. It had been Salgant too who had made the first contacts to get craftsmen into his House. Many were fearful of appearing too skilled. Salgant, again, was the one explaining to him the stigma of being a good smith – those talents were always accompanied with speculation of Fëanorian origin. Maeglin could not care less. His mother liked her cousins, if not her uncle, and from what she told him, he would have liked them too, especially Curufin.

Maeglin asked for a bath to be drawn for him and for a glass of firewater. He revelled in the little luxuries after a day of hard work. Today was only another setback, he decided. He sank in the scalding water, inhaling sharply as it touched his genitals. He liked the pain of it, loved how it flushed his skin, made him so sensitive that even towelling made his skin chafe.

Taking a sip from his firewater, he relaxed as much as he could in the tub. The doorbell rang below. Someone took care of it. A dog barked in the distance. Probably Pengolod’s. His head started throbbing in the most pleasant way as the tension melted under the alcohol and the heat. He could almost fall asleep, if not for the stirring in his loins. He cupped his groin with one hand, willing it to quiet down. In Nan Elmoth, things were complicated. His father was a bit of a prude, always talking about consequences and how they were not savages like the wanton Noldor. He had expected more freedom in Gondolin, judging from his father’s sanctimonious remarks and from his mother’s giggling while she hinted at bawdy tales involving her cousins.

But no. His Uncle had a mind set on perfection, a stilted paradise on Earth where everyone had a soulmate. One of the maids had sucked him off a few times, before her mother, the cook, had caught her. Fortunately, the woman had wanted to believe that nothing had happened before her intervention; he missed little Laurien. His stable boy often threw him glances. He did not need an encyclopaedia of mores to know what those meant, but he felt it was a risk. He did not want to expose himself to ridicule, and ridicule was the least of his concerns if he was discovered buggering his stable boy. So life in Gondolin might be luxurious but it was not lascivious.

Someone knocked softy at his door.

“Yes?”

“The Lord Salgant is in the library, M’lord.”

Maeglin closed his eyes. The water was still very hot. It would be a shame to let a perfectly good bath go to waste, but he did not want to send poor Salgant away, not just after he had tried to save him from embarrassment and annoyance.

“Send him up. Bring him a drink.”

They needed to talk about a few matters. Battle songs. What good was arming an army without battle songs to drive them forward, then the time came.

“Ah, there you are,” Salgant said.

Maeglin waved a hand for him to come closer. Salgant walked gingerly to the tub, and avoided looking at him. Their conversation was stilted and unproductive. Maeglin rose from the tub, miffed, and was about to ask Salgant what was the matter with him when he realized his guest’s eyes followed every single movement of the towel as he dried himself. The clarity of the perception hit him like the kick of a mule.

“Opportunity makes a thief,” he said, dropping the towel. Salgant’s lips trembled.

It was not that Maeglin had never thought of Salgant that way. Salgant had the ill fate of not being attractive in the classic way, but there was an uncertain charm in his bulk, something appealing in the squareness of his chest, the inviting plump buttocks. It was just that Salgant hardly ever showed any interest in that field. While Maeglin waited for Salgant to look up from his drink, the pieces of the puzzle fell into place. Salgant was a master in hiding – in fact, Maeglin could not wish for a better teacher. But the curtain had fallen. Why not? They were friends. Salgant almost certainly did not have a lover…

“Why not?” he repeated aloud.

Salgant nervously shook his head. “You do not know what you ask for.”

“My uncle is not a balrog. Besides, who would tell?”

“Maeglin, the walls have ears. Maybe not in your house, but someone, sooner or later…”

Salgant made to leave, still averting his eyes. Maeglin barred the door with his naked body.

“Someone might hear us,” he whispered. “If you are so afraid, you had better not make noise now, not so close to the door.” Maeglin smiled, watching how Salgant’s skin puckered under the caress of his breath. He wondered for how long Salgant had wanted him. Pulling Salgant by the waist, he found a surprising hardness, thick muscle, not the lean flesh most elves had. He liked it. Salgant wielded, turning himself to fully face Maeglin. He placed a trembling hand on Maeglin’s waist.

“Just this once.”

Maeglin kissed him, open mouthed. Salgant was more experienced in this as in everything else, and Maeglin, once more, benefited from his instruction. Salgant, for all his previous hesitation, surrendered completely to the moment, showing him everything that he needed, wanted to know, taking him, pressing him under his body, making him shiver as he drove forward.

The afternoon sun paled until the room was filled with the blue light of the evening. A servant knocked and asked if she should bring dinner on a tray. Maeglin told her he and the Lord Salgant would soon descend to eat in the dining room.

“Do you think she knows?” he asked Salgant.

“She knows. Servants always know,” Salgant sighed. “But she will not talk. I saved her sister from a compromising situation.”

“My, my, aren’t you kindness…” Maeglin drawled. He felt slightly sleepy, a little aroused, capable of going for a third round. He also felt strangely affectionate towards Salgant. Pulling a lock of hair back, he teased, “Do not be so dejected. I will take insult.”

Salgant smiled, without looking at him. “My, my, a joke from the lips of the sombre Lord of the House of the Mole? The Dagor Dagorath might be upon us.”

Maeglin rose and pulled a robe on. “Dinner?”

“Certainly.”

“And tomorrow?”

Salgant shook his head and covered his face with his hands. He let out a sound that might be a sigh or a chortle or a sob. Maeglin held his breath, feeling something choking him. Salgant’s sigh dissolved into the low rumble of held laughter. He ran his hands back from his face and clipped his hair, looking at Maeglin with a grin.

“Aye, tomorrow. You will be the death of me.”

_Finis  
August 2015_


End file.
